


Fragile

by MsJody13



Series: Convoluted: A Spideypool Collection [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, spideypool - Fandom
Genre: ...you may not, At least I think it's funny..., Author is a recluse, Humor, Language!, Look out for the feels, M/M, school owns me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 18:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14291151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsJody13/pseuds/MsJody13
Summary: Spider-Man plays games with Deadpool and gets more than what he bargained for.





	Fragile

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to post. School owns me, but I wrote this instead of looking for a job, so there's that. Enjoy!
> 
> Peter is an adult in this--I was imagining him as a college freshman, so like 18 or 19 years old.

"You're too good for this world, Spidey. Compassionate, merciful, kind. _Friendly even_." Deadpool's words, spoken with a smirk, possessed a note of sincerity that made the tips of Spider-Man's ears burn with embarrassment. He silently gave thanks that the rolled-up-to-eat position of his mask hid them from view. The mercenary inhaled deeply and with a dramatic sigh picked up his bottle cap checker. "I, however, am none of those things," and proceeded to capture the hero's four remaining playing pieces. Well, in this case, quarters. 

"Gah! That's the third game in a row you've won." Peter finished off his can of Red Pop in two loud gulps and made to stand. "I surrender. And it's getting late. Or early. Y'know, depending." He shrugged. 

A hard flick to the bicep caught the vigilante off guard. _Ouch_ _!_ _Et_ _tu_ _, spider-sense?_  

"C'mon, baby boy. Don't be such a scaredy-tights." 

Peter scoffed, "I assure you I have no idea what you mean, good sir." 

"I really think it's time to up the ante. Make things a little more in-ter-rest-ting if you get my drift." Hairless eyebrows wiggled erratically under a red and black mask. Not quite coordinated enough to qualify as suggestive, but he really does try. Maximum effort.  

"I am not playing strip checkers on a rooftop down at the docks with you at three in the morning." Spider-Man stood and brushed the grit off his backside. "Forget it."  

"Whoa! I wasn't thinking strip checkers." _T_ _hough now I_ _most definitely_ _will be_ _once I get home_ _and in the shower_. "What I'm referring to is," the mercenary's muscular arms were suddenly thrown wide, voice booming and hands jazzing, "Confession Checkers!"  

"So, let me take a guess, Wade." Peter crossed his arms and leaned against a sizable metal utility box. "Does this _game_ happen to have anything to do with your jobs? I don't want to know how many different ways you've killed people." 

"Nah," Deadpool waved his hand in dismissal. "For that game we'd need lawn darts." 

"Or does it perchance involve hearing about what I assume is your very extensive and undoubtedly disturbing encyclopedia of personal sexcapades?" 

"Not even an option tonight, Spidey. I don't know any place open this late that sells jacks." The assurance came punctuated with a sniffle and a forlorn gaze into the middle-distance. 

"Okayyy," Peter slowly lowered himself to sit again. "I'm actually very curious and truthfully that worries me a bit. Regardless, go on and tell me how Confession Checkers works. But I reserve the option to wordlessly swing away during said explanation if I feel a migraine coming on." 

Deadpool considered Spider-Man's terms. "Fair enough," he said and began setting up for another round on his diy, artisinally hand-crafted, upcycled checker board. Lovingly fashioned from locally sourced materials (discarded pizza box from that so-so place over on 14th) and the finest quality inks (chisel-tip king Sharpie), this rustic interpretation of a classic favorite totally works in a pinch. Probably available on Etsy.  

When he finished arranging the bottle caps and quarters in the appropriate spots, the assassin clapped his hands together and regarded Peter with a big, toothy grin. Truthfully it was kind of unnerving. "It's super simple, bookworm buddy of mine. Same rules as regular checkers, but before making a move ya gotta confess something. With each move the confessions get progressively more personal. Capiche? Good. Now let's do this!" 

"Wait, wait!" Peter suddenly felt in over his head. "What kind of stuff are we going to confess? I'm thinking this is a bad idea." 

"Take it easy, Spidey. I'm not expecting you to pull all the skeletons out of your closet and take a group photo. We'll begin small. Something the other person doesn't know about but is no big deal. Such as...I love eating stewed tomatoes right out of the can. There I said it. Hey, don't judge me and you aren't actually puking so stop with the theatrics. Nerd."   

Another flick to the upper arm. _O_ _uch. Damn._  

"So, after you my arachnid-themed comrade. I'll let you start things off. Whatcha got?" 

Peter placed his index finger on a quarter and tried to focus. He was still unsure about the whole thing and was desperate for something to offer up that wasn't too revealing.  _Got it!_ He chuckled as he slid the quarter into an adjacent black square. He cleared his throat before speaking, "When I was little, I thought lasagna noodles were made from actual elephant ears."   
   
An unbridled laugh erupted from Deadpool, almost jolly really, and it was by far the most organic display of emotion Peter had seen from him. At that moment he felt genuine fondness toward the older man as he watched Deadpool slowly recover from his fit.  

"Well I used to think," Wade snorted and immediately choked on his own spit. Coughing, he pushed his bottle cap forward. "When I was a kid I used to think," he was laugh-talking now, "that gay men had sex by tying their dicks together!"  

Fun fact: It takes two grown men approximately four and a half minutes to regain composure after being reduced to giggling, spastic heaps of spandex, Kevlar, and shame. Approximately. 

The exchange continued. 

"I worked in a coffee shop and secretly gave rude customers decaf." 

"I dumped a bunch of liquid Tide into a public fountain."  

"I write quotes from Harry Potter on post it notes and stick them in library books." 

"For the longest time I wanted to be an artist." 

"I have no idea where my life is going." 

"I don't feel like I have to conform when I'm around you." 

"I'm not living. Just existing." 

 "So scared I will never find a place that feels like home." 

What started as a game grew into something else entirely. Though not yet acknowledged, it firmly took root between the pair nonetheless. Both men silently recognized the significance of this _thing_  as they sat close, shoulders touching, and watched the sun rise. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Approximately" ha-ha *snort*
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments keep me motivated and brighten my day.


End file.
